


The Third Position

by Arsenic



Series: By the Numbers [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 06:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13875342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Sherlock gets himself a copy of the Kama Sutra.  (A sequel to Esteefee's Jack-in-the-Box, it probably will not make sense without having read that fic.  Also, that fic is awesome, so you should be reading it anyway.)





	The Third Position

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esteefee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Jack-in-the-Box](https://archiveofourown.org/works/313348) by [esteefee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee). 



> This is a really old story that I'm actually just posting in preparation for posting a new story that's still in beta. I don't think I've missed any warnings, but please please tell me if you think I have.

Secretly, Holmes was surprised he remembered a cursed detail from that entire night, anything more than sensation and the pervading uncertainty he had not been entirely able to shake. But his mind was nothing if not dependable in certain ways, and so later, when he needed them, the details were there.

He had said, “flexible.” There had been some words framing it, yes, but Mary’s legs had also framed his torso, shockingly soft and ivory-pale. Holmes remembered the _significant_ details.

Watson had said, “Prana yoga.”

Holmes was experienced at finding the clue that began everything, the piece of information that worked as a finger would, holding a string, unraveling the scarf or shirt or hat held together by that string. He murmured, “Prana yoga,” under his breath, and went to work.

*

For all that it was the center of the empire, London could be less than forthcoming when a man wanted to know about the practices of one of the colonies, but Holmes was nothing if not perseverant. Hindu tradition provided a wealth of guidance, not only to greater physical flexibility, but flexibility of a more intimate nature.

Holmes was rather glad even Watson was loath to interrupt when Holmes shut himself up in his laboratory, presumptively to work at a case. Admitting there were things he did not know was not one of Holmes’ strengths, and that was just in everyday fields such as decision theory and ecophysiology, let alone something as mundane as sexual relations. Luckily, Holmes was a quick study.

At least, he had believed himself to be. Experience in this particular area was beginning to suggest otherwise.

Logically, to Holmes’ point of view, if what he wanted from this situation was: first, to keep what he had gained clearly by an accident of fate, and second, to satisfy his curiosity about the variant possibilities presented in the bedroom, then he must, of course, provide something Mary and Watson could not easily find elsewhere and convince them by his skill that reciprocation was only just.

The thought of Mary’s lips, thin and able to twist into smiles that were both clever and sharp, or curve into a moue of fondness as easily as one of knowing disapproval; those lips touching him, kissing him, bringing him to release, he would not allow himself the thought often, as it tended to make him useless for minutes—if not hours—on end. Once, after reading a particularly enticing chapter on the subject, he’d contemplated the addition of Watson’s all-too brilliant fingers, and he’d hardly been able to carry on a conversation at the dinner table that evening.

Strangely, they had rewarded his ineptitude by showing him what could be done on the smooth, flat surface of the table, its wood long polished to a warm, soft gleam. Holmes had wrapped his fingers around the edges of the table and held so tight the marks on his palms lasted until morning.

When he had attempted a sort of repayment the next evening, however—a first assay at using his own mouth, following the directions that had seemed so clear in the book and were devastatingly murky with Mary laid out before him, long and open and ready—it had ended with Watson having to give a tutorial. Not that Holmes had much minded Watson’s hands in his hair, the sibilant whisper of his instructions, the scrape of Watson’s teeth along the ridge of his ear. No, Holmes had not minded in the least, for Watson’s voice had held no censure, and Mary had smiled encouragingly, but she had not laughed, neither of them mocking him and his clumsy efforts. He had not minded their response, but he had surely minded his failure, the first of quite a few.

*

Holmes awoke to the sensation of being watched. That was not unusual these days, not with two potential watchers. It was discomfiting, all the same, when he was used to being the one watching. He peered over to find Mary’s face hidden behind a book, and Watson’s eyes intent upon him even as Watson listened to something Mary was murmuring. Holmes’s mind focused on the title of the book and found himself saying, “You’re acquiring all my bad habits, darlings, pilfering reading material from my room.”

A moment later he realized feigning innocence might have been the better route to take, if they so much as mentioned having found the book amongst his things, but what had been said could not be unsaid.

Mary’s voice floated up from behind whatever page she had discovered and she commented, “I do believe we’ve led you rather astray from your studies.” She lowered the book then to look directly at him. “You were trying to offer us something new.”

Holmes began to rise from the bed, his need to move urgent, but Watson stood at that moment and made his way over, his gaze still on Holmes. Watson said, “No, that’s not it at all, is it, Holmes?”

Holmes conjured up his best expression of innocence, then. Watson would not fall for it; he knew Holmes all too well, for Holmes had taught him better. It was merely the only response Holmes could come up with.

Mary was getting into the game now, as well. Holmes could feel her consideration of him, her chin propped along the top of the still-opened book. Watson sat on the bed and murmured, “Everything would be new to us, as you were new, and the mechanics of three were new.”

Holmes looked away, but Mary had set aside the book and was coming to his other side. He was outflanked. She tilted her head and asked, simply, “Was it more than the number involved that was novel?”

Holmes craned up to capture her lips in a kiss. One of the lessons he had learned immediately was the use of attraction as a distraction technique. Watson, though, pulled him away, clearly having none of it. 

Watson’s tone held amusement, if not precisely mockery as he said, “It was not much more than a brief interlude with Irene, then, was it? You’ve never let anyone near, not like this.”

Persons had not entirely been lining up with offers, either, but what Watson said was true enough. Holmes nodded, a slight, quick tip of his head.

Mary said slowly, “Then…we are something new to you, as well? You, for whom everything is passé?”

Holmes frowned slightly. “How could you have even imagined you were anything other than—than positively…unique, to me?”

Mary’s smile was fragile in a way Holmes could not understand. Oh, he could read it, could see the relief and the underlying fissures of uncertainty beginning to mend, but he could not begin to comprehend her concern.

Behind him, Watson said, “For as much as you talk, old boy, you realize it’s very rare that you actually say anything?”

*

“We cannot do what you do, you realize?” Mary asked Holmes that evening as she prepared dinner. He could not tear his eyes from her hands, their competence at the cutting and stirring and the simple motions of everyday life.

“Mm?” he asked, vaguely aware that he should be listening, rather than considering if she would ever do this naked for him, let him watch the way her muscles moved while she made everything mundane infinitely interesting.

Watson’s laugh was a small thing, but bright. His fingers went to Holmes’s chin, dragging his gaze away. “Pay attention.”

“I am always paying attention,” Holmes told him, affecting affront. He was, too; to something at least.

“To her words,” Watson specified lightly.

Mary turned, the steam from whatever was cooking rising up behind her, giving her an otherworldly appearance, as if she needed any assistance in that area. “I mean we cannot deduce your desires from the curl of your hair or the tapping of your finger, dearest. You have to give us some help, no matter how tiresome that may seem.”

She was joking with him, he knew. He could see her tells. Oh, not in that she didn't want him to spill his wishes, but her gentle mockery of his proficiency, his profession. Still, it was new, being laughed with, rather than at, and it was a moment before he could give her the hint of a smile. Watson’s fingers, still on Holmes’s chin despite Holmes having looked away, back at Mary, gave a caress and then dropped.

People paid as little attention to words as they did physical signs. Holmes had counted on this truth many times over the years. He said, “You’ve given me everything I could have asked for and far more.”

Watson, though—damn him—was having none of it. “Certainly more than you would have expected to be given, but your expectations of others, even others you care for, are depressingly low.”

Mary tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, and Holmes strove to decide if she was being tempting on purpose, or if he was just too bloody gone on her to be reasonable about anything. Her eyes were warm but also sad as she said, “There must be something, some-- Whatever it is, you must know we would not judge.”

Holmes could almost yearn to have an outlandish request, just to give her sentiments some value. “No, m’dear. I fear your unerring faith in my inspired ways would be shattered.”

There was a long silence in which Holmes tried to figure out precisely what he had said that was so very wrong, that was causing the brittleness he could feel between them. 

Finally, Watson spoke up, his voice clearly as light as he could manage. “Test our faith, Holmes.”

Ah. He had insulted their steadfastness. He should have seen that. They confused him; their very existence did not square with his understanding—a complex understanding—of the world. He fixed his gaze on a thread coming loose from Mary’s apron and said, stiffly, “I have-- When you were going about tempting me to your bed, you would perform a service for Watson.”

Holmes waited, but even without looking he could feel their confusion. He closed his eyes. “Your mouth.” He took a breath. “That has never interested my former liaisons.”

He felt the confusion bleed out of the room, but could not place what supplanted it without opening his eyes. The first thing he saw was Mary eyeing him, then sharing a considering glance with her husband. Watson said mildly, “Those foolish, foolish persons.”

She smiled in agreement.

*

They made him sit and eat dinner with them. Holmes was not much of one for sitting still long enough to ingest an entire meal on a regular night, and this night, with its promise of erotic adventure, was not, by any definition, regular. Even more cruelly, Watson brushed Holmes’ hand with his while passing his plate. Mary, the vixen, laughed on more than one occasion at something either one of them said, appearing perfectly innocent, as though she had no idea what such a sound did to Holmes.

He was three-fourths on his way to utter madness when Watson stood and said, “I do believe cleanup can wait.”

Mary stood too, smiling. “If it was up to you, Dr. Watson, cleanup would always wait.”

“At least it would come about eventually, unlike in the case of some others,” Watson quipped, his hand settling in the small of Holmes’ back.

Holmes would have loved to respond with wit and attention, but he was coming out of his skin, one muscle at a time. It was all he could manage just to keep himself together. He felt strangely clumsy as Watson herded him onto the stairs, up and up in the wake of Mary’s pale green skirt. The swish of the fabric was unduly loud in his ears, as though it was trying to tell him something.

Somehow he made it into the room, the Watson’s marital abode, Watson closing the door quietly in their wake. From behind, Watson murmured, “You’re shaking.”

Holmes could remember feeling this way on the solution, as though he could run a mile within ten seconds, but incapable of beginning to move. Watson pulled Holmes against him then, Holmes’ back to his chest. His arms were stronger than reasonable for any physician, a remnant of the soldier, something Watson could not leave behind. They were safe, those arms, his chest keeping Holmes upright.

“Breathe,” Watson demanded, and Holmes inhaled, because he did his best to listen to Watson, even knowing that being well-behaved was something he had never quite managed. Even as a child, seeing the way Mycroft got along so perfectly, doing his utmost to mimic him precisely, Holmes had always made a mess of himself and everything in his path sooner or later.

Mary had come to stand in front of him, and was unpinning her hair slowly, each pin unlocking another tress, a fall of curls. He sometimes watched her sculpt her locks in the mornings, seemingly so easy for her. Holmes reached out to touch one of the curls, fine against his fingers.

He said, “You are both rather extraordinary,” as though this were a casual observation, as though his presence was not confusing him, as though he wasn’t speaking because he literally could not keep his thoughts to himself.

“Holmes,” Watson said, the word somehow relaying a depth of frustration and care all in the same breath.

“You,” Mary said between kisses, “are rather precious. To us.”

Holmes had created scenarios for this moment endlessly in his head. Every variation he could think of, every slight detail he had shifted and his imagination had never gotten the feeling quite right. When Watson began undoing Holmes’ cuffs, Holmes found himself paralyzed, incapable of helping in the least.

They worked in concert, smiles teasing at their lips, but never leaving him out of their silent conversation, despite his uselessness. Watson left Holmes to undress his wife, asking questions of Holmes the entire time, such as, “Do you not find the curve of her hip magnificent?”

Magnificent was an understatement so far as Holmes was concerned, but it did not matter, as he had lost his voice. He did manage a nod when Mary, undressing her husband, rasped, “I do love the line of his back.”

They each took one of his hands, pulling him to the bed, laying him out. He had the strange sense of being a virgin sacrifice, and the even stranger sense of not minding it in the least. He must have said that last aloud, because Watson laughed, delight and eagerness ringing through the sound. Mary said, “Well, I suppose we are sacrificing your virginity, come to it.”

Holmes had no time to reply, because she followed up the thought by kissing the head of his cock, sweet and nearly chaste. Holmes’ breath caught in his throat. From his other side, Watson repeated Mary’s actions and oh, _oh_ , Holmes hadn’t even thought of that, not at all. Never mind that he had intellectually tutored himself on the possibility of administering of such pleasure upon Watson’s cock, it was altogether different for Watson, who was not the unbalanced recluse invert of Baker Street.

Mary’s tongue, dainty and pointed, drew lines around the tip of his cock, up and down. Holmes was caught between the instinct to catalogue every sensation and the driving need to let himself go and drown in the feeling. Watson’s mouth covered Holmes’ cock, strong tongue circling the head, and the decision was taken from Holmes.

Hands on his torso kept him from arching up—Mary’s hands, thin and yet so powerful. She murmured, “You can take charge next time, love. This time is ours to do as we wish with you.”

Holmes blinked at her. “I am always yours to do as you wish.”

Her expression wavered between a smile and a canvas of hurt. He told her, “I’m sorry,” without knowing what he was sorry for. He knew the truth was sometimes inappropriate, but he hadn’t thought this to be one of those times.

Watson came off and covered him, their cocks pressing together. Then Watson kissed him, and Holmes could taste himself on Watson, utterly unfamiliar, deeply arousing. Watson pulled back and said, “My dear Holmes.”

“Yes?” Holmes said.

“Do shut up.” Watson’s face held nothing but the deepest fondness, and Holmes was all too aware that Watson often knew what was best for Holmes long before Holmes himself did.

Holmes was glad to comply, particularly when Mary's mouth took over for Watson's. Holmes’ fingers twisted in her hair, which was draped over his torso. He did not pull, just carded the strands between his fingers, trying to ground himself, stay in this place with them. It was hard, the pleasure was intense, far beyond what he’d conjured in his mind, and where Watson was talented with using his hand to complement his mouth, Mary was creative with her tongue.

He found himself shaking again, this time not just under his skin, but starting in the center of his chest. Watson rumbled, “Come along, old boy,” and Holmes obeyed.

*

Holmes was unsurprised to awaken in the still-dark of pre-dawn. He now slept half again as much as he had before the Watsons had allowed him the right of their bed, but his insomnia had been his lifelong dragon, and he was no St. George. He indulged several moments of listening to the murmurs Mary sometimes made, and Watson’s quiet, rhythmic snores. Then, cautiously, he gave up these comforts to head down to his lab, to see if the time lost to sleep could be used for something of value.

He poked at the article he’d noticed in the papers that morning regarding a literary tour being planned by a popular novelist. Holmes still could not figure what it was about the story that struck him as wrong, but something else would happen, another clue, and pieces would begin to fall into place; although, whether before or after the harm was done, that was to be discovered. It was almost always after, and even when it was before, indictment became an impossibility. At times, seeing the inevitable and having no ability to stop it made Holmes want to hide here, in this flat, forever.

Oh, he knew rationally he would be bored within hours. The thought appealed nonetheless, even more so now, having two people around with whom to speak. He did not let himself think about what would happen if—when—they left. He had made a resolution to only worry about problems that were within his ability to actively predict. His desertion by the Watsons did not yet fall into that category.

He was reading through his correspondences, seeing if there was anything that interested him, when there was a knock at the door. Holmes glanced out the window. There was a glimmer of light, but nothing worth getting out of bed over. “Come.”

The door cracked open just a bit and two pairs of eyes appeared in the slit. Mary said, “’Morning.”

“Or something like,” Holmes said.

Watson pushed the door open the rest of the way. “Anything interesting?”

Holmes grimaced in response. “But a few worth the fee.”

“But perhaps we could acquire one of those saris, should you be willing to lower yourself to such menial cases for economic gain,” Watson said lightly, the curl of temptation in his tone unnecessary. Holmes’ mind supplied the image of Mary in such deeply bright cloth, so very un-British, of unwrapping her, quite literally, a sort of yearlong Christmas gift.

Mary grinned, wicked and everything good all at once. Watson’s curls were all out of place, as they were in the morning. Holmes longed to cross the room and rake his hand through them.

Softly, Mary said, “Come. I’ve put some tea on to help you sleep a bit longer.”

Holmes’ glance flickered to the window. The sun was beginning to come up in earnest.

Watson said, “We shall keep the world outside your door until mid-day.”

Holmes would not sleep without them beside him, tea or no tea. It was a pitiful state of affairs and one he refused to acknowledge aloud.

Mary elaborated, “From your side, of course. We have no interest in being anywhere else.”

Evidently, he was embarrassingly transparent. With all the dignity he could manage, he said, “I am a bit parched.”

Both of them held out their hands.


End file.
